


Boredom can have its consequences

by breadnotangels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Community: bdsm_fandom, Discipline, English, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadnotangels/pseuds/breadnotangels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson wakes up to find his living room trashed and randomly painted in stripes bright yellow, and takes the initiative to 'help' Sherlock discover a new method for curing his boredom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

John padded bare-footed into the living room, eyes misty and limbs aching from a night's sleep. He looks about himself, and it taken his half-awake mind a few moments to take in the state of the place. 221B Baker Street does not pride itself on keeping a neat and orderly household, but the disarray in which John was witnessing it was ridiculous, even by Sherlock's deplorable standards.

There was stuff...everywhere. The bookcase held no books, its contents was flung onto the floor. The sofa was upside-down with a thick knife slash cut through its side. The coffee table was smashed, wallpaper had been ripped off the walls, and the windows were smeared with bright yellow paint. Strewn across the floor were hundreds of objects; an huge upended bottle of acid, an oil canister, a pig's head, a goldfish bowl containing a fish but no water, a stuffed raven, a suitcases full of what appeared to be animal bones, and a typewriter with most of the keys missing.

And there, in the centre of the abyss, sat in a chair in a dressing down with his eyes fixed on the skull on the mantelpiece, was Sherlock. John picked his way across to him, and fixed him with a thunderous glare.

"For God's sake – What the hell has been going on here?" Sherlock looked up lazily at his friend, noting his furious expression and agitated body language before returning is gaze to the skull and replying, "Going on where?"

John looks at him blankly for a second, licking his lips and folding his arms across his chest.

"Here, Sherlock. Here. In our living room. Or what used to be our living room, before you turned it upside down and painted YELLOW".

Sherlock looks around for a few seconds, clearly confused as to the fuss John was making, before returning his gaze and cocking his head to one side.

"...I couldn't sleep. Sleep is so dull, I don't know how you manage so much of it", he said plainly, and vacates his chair. He walks two paces before he feels firm fingers curl around his upper arm. He looks back and watches as John sits in the seat, and the hand holding his arm creeps down to his wrist.

Sherlock is very talented at predicting the actions of others. But he could say with certainty that at that moment in time, he'd never have predicted being pulled by his wrist forward and across John Watson's lap, in the middle of their living room.

Laying over John's knees, his arms taut against the floor and his head lolling between his shoulder blades, Sherlock snorted in utter contempt.

"Oh dear John, really? Are you going to spank me?"

This was all the invitation John Watson needed. He wrenched up Sherlock's dressing gown to reveal his bare, firm arse and without a word of warning, brought his hand down on the exposed left cheek. He heard a distinct gasp from the man, and a slight wriggle. Taking this as confirmation that he'd made the right choice, John began spanking Sherlock's arse at a steady and careful pace. He watched in an almost detached manner as a light pink began to bloom across Sherlock's arse, and noted that with each slap, Sherlock wriggled just that little bit more.

On the tenth spank, Sherlock gasped much louder than before, before saying quite shakily.

"John.. I...". But John ignored him, and instead continued the spanking, making sure to land the spanks sporadically across his arse, paying special attention to the tops of Sherlock's creamy thighs. He was absolutely furious, and really wanted Sherlock to pay for his appalling behaviour. His own thighs felt particularly warm, and with each spank that rang out, he could feel his cock twitching with interest. Gritting his teeth, John tried to forget this fact, and began to lecture the man laying across his lap, in order to try and distract himself.

"How dare you *SMACK* tear this place apart *SMACK* because you were BORED *SMACK*!"

He felt Sherlock squirm uncomfortably underneath him, and felt satisfaction shoot through his own body as he realised that Sherlock was clearly, humiliated.

"*SMACK* Cannot believe you think you can just *SMACK* do anything you please *SMACK* because you feel like it *SMACK*"

At this point, John shifted slightly to adjust to Sherlock's wriggling, and immediately froze as his leg came into contact with what was clearly Sherlock's hard cock. There was a split second moment in which both men were absolutely still, both apparently trying to comprehend the meaning of such a situation, before something inside John stirred, something that felt oddly like...triumph.

He resumed the spanking with much more vigour, thereby unleashing a series of whimpers from Sherlock, who John was convinced was now bright-red from the sheer humiliation of not only being punished – but for being aroused by it too. And John was glad, because it pleased him to know that this punishment was really affecting Sherlock.

A smug smile twitched on John's lips as he watched the light pink of Sherlock's arse deepen slowly, until it was slightly tinged red.

Sherlock was now quite frantic. "Alright, John! Ahhh, you really, no- John, don't – OW!"

John landed a particularly hard smack on Sherlock's arse.

"Do not speak unless spoken to, Sherlock, I've had enough of that smug tone of yours!"

Sherlock whimpered, and John was surprised to find him actually obey the order. It gave him confidence.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock? *SMACK* There was no point behind it, you just wanted to make a scene *SMACK*. Thousands of pounds worth of damage *SMACK* because Sherlock Holmes *SMACK* is bored?"

Sherlock lets out a sob at this, his self-control deteriorates, and he puts one hand back behind him to try and stop the onslaught on his now painfully stinging arse. His skin is now blushing deep pink and is highly sensitive, even to the cold air between each spank. His cock is begging for friction, and on top of it all, he's so utterly confused as to why he's finding this situation so arousing.

And John simply pins his hand to the small of his back, and carries on.

"Are you bored now, Sherlock? *SMACK* I don't think you are. Maybe that's why you did it. *SMACK* You knew I'd react so you destroyed our living room, just to get yourself off? *SMACK* Do you get off on this Sherlock, *SMACK*, being spanked like a naughty little boy over my knee?"

Sherlock's other hand wraps around John's ankle as he sobs, his words incoherent as his usually entirely suppressed emotions bubble to the surface and explode. His hips buck desperately against John's leg, and his whole body is tense with anger, and humiliation and desire.

John can tell Sherlock needs to be pushed over the edge – he needs this from John, and John is nothing if not reliable.

"Because that's what you are, isn't it Sherlock? You're just a naughty little boy who's just desperate for attention. And you know that you deserve to be punished – you deserve to have this pretty arse spanked bright red don't you?"

Sherlock's whole body is shaking – he's so, so close.

John spanks him a final time, forcing his hips straight forward and giving him the final friction he needs and Sherlock is grasped by an incredibly powerful orgasm that leaves him fighting for breath. For a few seconds afterwards – he's perfectly still, utterly detached from all emotions and simply enjoying the moment. But then the fierce sting of his arse comes back to him, and he feel blood rush to his face as he remember that John has just spanked him like a child in the middle of their living room. He knows that for John to have punished him, for the first time ever, that he really must have overstepped the mark, that maybe he was just desperate for attention from John, that somewhere deep down his body knew that he wanted and needed to be punished and Oh God he had come all over...

His shoulder shook as he began to cry – real tears filled with raw emotion and he couldn't say anything more than "I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry..."

John pushed him gently from his lap onto the mess that was now the floor. He took Sherlock's head in his hands and forced the embarrassed man to look at him.

"It's ok, it's over now – we'll get this place sorted and it will all be fine."

Sherlock sobbed harder. "It's not fine, it's not fine! I'm sorry, I didn't mean – and I didn't think you would actually..."

John hushed him and looked sincerely into his eyes.

"To be honest, I had no idea what I was going to do. I don't know where this leaves us, in terms of... But you're err...forgiven, and we'll sort this place out after breakfast".

Sherlock nods his head, frustrated at himself for not being able to speak properly. He folds his dressing gown tightly back over his bare chest and surveys the rooms with a blank expression.

John stands up and clumsily picks his way back towards the landing. "I'm going to get err...cleaned up. Do you want to talk about...this, when I get back?"

Sherlock looked very uncomfortable for a second.

"Ah." He started, rising to his feet and stepping gracefully off of the pile of books. "Yes, John...perhaps you should hold off of getting clean for a little while."

The doctor frowned. "...why would I do that?"

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and began busying himself with his microscope.

"Because if you thought the living room was bad...I'm not sure you're going to enjoy our newly redecorated bathroom" he said with weak smile.


	2. Chapter 2

NOTE: Once again, I'm not very good at making AO3 keep in the breaks between paragraphs that I intentionally put in. So if this is difficult to read, I apologise! <3

John took a small step towards Sherlock, and watched with amusement as Sherlock’s eyes flickered away from the microscope to survey the doctor, those calculating eyes as clear as ever, but the nervous lick of his bottom lip a complete giveaway as to his emotions.

  
“Define: ‘newly redecorated’” John commanded, placing a hand on the kitchen table, and drumming his fingers against the surface, watching for any change in expression from the detective.

  
Sherlock sniffed and averted his gaze back to the microscope, although John had a funny feeling he wasn’t getting very far with his observation. Rolling his eyes, the doctor turned.

  
“Fine” he said over his shoulder “I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself...”

  
“John.” Sherlock’s voice remained perfectly even, but there was no hiding the note of slight panic in his tone. Usually, he never had any issue with annoying John, because most of the time he could never work out how he’d managed to do it in the first place. But with his arse throbbing and sore beneath his dressing gown, and a faint blush still radiating from his prominent cheekbones, he felt very much like a child trying to conceal crayon-scrawled walls from a less-than amused adult.

  
“Newly redecorated” he said to John’s back. “As in, not exactly as it was yesterday....”

  
John didn’t turn around, but took another step in the direction of the bathroom, hearing the creak of a floorboard behind him as Sherlock instinctively followed his movement.

  
“It’s really nothing to worry about-“

  
“Well if it’s nothing to worry about” John interjected. “Then you won’t mind showing me, will you?” The doctor turned around to face Sherlock, who was now staring alternately at the ground and a space just above John’s head.

  
“You’re going to show me.” John ordered, reaching forward to grasp Sherlock’s thin wrist and pull him in front. Sherlock stumbled at the force and just stood there, looking lost. John landed a sharp smack on the detective’s sensitive backside.  
“Women and children first, Sherlock. Lead the way.”

  
The detective winced, and moved, his posture much like that of a man walking towards the gallows. From behind him, John rolled his eyes and impatiently nudged Sherlock in the back to encourage a faster pace.

  
When they reached the bathroom door, Sherlock stopped and wheeled round. Looking down at John, he seemed to be fighting the urge to run away.

  
“It’s really not that bad”.

 

John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock continued hurriedly.

  
“But if this does happen to, err, force you to look unfavourably towards me, then perhaps I might suggest we discuss some sort of alternate method by which you could relieve your frustration?”

  
“Depends on how unfavourable the circumstances are. Open the door.”

  
Sherlock did so, opening it as far as it would go and walking as far into the bathroom as possible so that John could join him. The term ‘far’ is used loosely here, because the bathroom at 221B Baker Street had not been particularly large in the first place. But due to the number of water features that it now furnished, it had become a bit of a tight squeeze. A tall, narrow cascading water fountain sat in the middle of the bath, sploshing water onto the ceramic, where it escaped down the plughole. In fact, every surface was covered in water features of every shape and size. Cherubs, spewing mermaids, gargoyles, Japanese peace fountains. And John was certain he could hear frogs splashing around in the sink.

  
The doctor turned to stare at the man standing next to him, in utter disbelief.

  
Sherlock shrugged feebly “Research.”

  
John exploded. “RESEARCH! How did you even get all this up here with me hearing you?! Where did they all come from, I swear to God if they’re stolen-“

  
“Borrowed, John!” Sherlock interjected indignantly.

  
“THEY’RE IN MY BATHROOM! You’ve even hooked them up to the water supply somehow, how much is our utility bill going to cost this month?! And another thing, are there frogs in here?”

  
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps one or two.”

  
John’s face clouded over, and there was a moment of tense silence. When the doctor spoke, his voice had become dangerously calm.

  
“Get. This stuff. Out. Of my bathroom. Now. I want it all gone by the time I come home this evening. And I want the living room tidied and repaired as much as it can be. Understand?”

  
Sherlock nodded quickly, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking down at John furtively.

  
“Speak to me, Sherlock, use your words. Do you understand?”

  
“Yes, I understand.” Sherlock muttered, not even trying to keep the exasperation out of his tone.

  
“Good. You’re going to be one very sorry little boy when I’m through with you, so if I were you I’d drop the tone and do as you’re told.”

  
Sherlock started and blushed furiously, trying to hold back the number of insults he wanted to fling at the doctor. He already felt like a very sorry little boy and up until this point, he had been hoping to brush this whole incident under the carpet, and wave it off as ‘psychologically curious’. But it looked like the world was currently conspiring against him, and he wouldn’t be forgetting this day for a very long time.

  
“What-“ he began, clearing his throat and trying not to sound worried. “What exactly do you mean by ‘when you’re through with me’?”

  
John turned and marched off in search of a fresh pair of jeans. He returned a minute later, and smiled at Sherlock’s bewildered expression.

  
“Don’t fret, Sherlock. After all- ” he said, walking towards the landing and patting his pockets to check for his phone and keys, and looked back at Sherlock with a grin.

  
“It’s really nothing to worry about. “


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock, of course, had not problem in identifying the footsteps that tapped up the stairs of the apartment in Baker Street. As the footsteps drew near to the apartment door, the detective busied himself with trying to look nonchalant, a difficult task when he’d been thinking only of the owner of those footsteps all day. 

John took off his jacket and hung it by the door, stepping into the quiet living room of 221B, which was looking a little more normal than it had done that morning. Had it not been for his annoyance with his flat-mate, he would have admitted that Sherlock’s ability to change things when he felt like it was impressive. There was little evidence of any sign of a disturbance in the London flat, and had it not been for the smudge of yellow paint on the side of the mantelpiece, the doctor may have even believed the entire thing had been an absurd dream. Ignoring the figure glued to the microscope in his peripheral vision, John turned and walked towards the bathroom, slowly opening the door to reveal a perfectly mundane room, bereft of both fountains and frogs. Smiling to himself, John strode back towards the living room, feeling a little satisfied with the worry he’d obviously instilled in his flatmate. It was unlike Sherlock to bend to the whims of a threat. 

Although, John thought as he settled down in the chair he’d sat in earlier that day, it hadn’t exactly been a threat. More of a direct order. 

The detective did not move from his spot, as he stood regarding slides underneath his microscope, unable to scrutinize the cells with his usual vigour. Stealing a sideways glance at the doctor, he felt a slightly uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. John’s body language gave away that he was waiting, rather patiently, for Sherlock to make the first move. But there was something else there, an air of authority which was usually suppressed by the ex-military man, seemed to have risen to the surface, even as he read the newspaper in the comfort of the armless chair. Sherlock, although usually entirely unaware of the expectations of a social situation, could see that John was not going to move. In fact, the doctor was not going to do anything but go about the last remaining hours of the evening as he usually did, ignoring Sherlock’s existence entirely. 

The ball was very much in the detective’s court, and Sherlock hated him for it. His curiosity about John’s reaction as much as his own towards the earlier events of the day had been turning over in his mind ever since John had left the apartment that morning. Organising the removal of water monuments and repairing their destroyed living room had given him a lot of time to consider all the factors, and yet he remained entirely stumped and horribly embarrassed about the whole situation. He needed more information. 

Still not moving from his spot of not-quite looking through the microscope, Sherlock addressed his flatmate casually. 

“I trust you’re satisfied?”

John paused from not-quite reading the paper, to regard the detective. 

“Almost.” 

Sherlock tried to keep his tone as one of detached interest. 

“Oh?” 

John folded the paper and set it down on the floor, watching Sherlock’s ever so subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other, as he tried not to appear anxious. 

“I need to be certain it won’t happen again. And there seems to be only one way of making you understand how to behave.”

Sherlock flushed a deep pink, and looked up towards the doctor, who was looking at him sternly. 

“Come here, Sherlock.”

John’s tone made the hairs on the back of the detective’s neck stand on end, and a spark shot up his spine. Still, embarrassment far outweighed arousal, and Sherlock calmly shook his head. 

John raised an eyebrow. “Come here, you’ll go over my knee and get my hand and the ruler. Refuse, and I’ll bend you over that kitchen table and put a wooden spoon to good use.” 

The doctor’s voice was low and dangerous. It wasn’t a threat, but a promise. There were a few seconds where Sherlock simply stared insolently at the doctor. But the moment John sighed and began to rise out of his chair, Sherlock found himself walking resignedly towards his flatmate, not quite brave enough to call the doctor’s bluff. He stood in front of John, arms folded defensively across his chest, and not quite meeting the doctor’s gaze. 

John gestured towards Sherlock’s trouser-clad legs. “Off”, he said simply. 

The detective was outraged. As if submitting to this ridiculous “punishment” wasn’t enough to cause him to die of shame, the doctor was now expecting him to willingly undress himself. Sherlock didn’t move. 

John rolled his eyes. “Do it yourself, or I’ll do it for you.” 

Sherlock considered which was worse, but waited a split second too long before reacting. John’s patience wore out, and he pulled the detective towards him, unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of all the loops, before unzipping Sherlock’s fly and pulling his trousers down to his shins. Not waiting for a response, the doctor immediately pulled the detective over his lap, adjusting the position until he was comfortable. 

Placing a hand round Sherlock’s waist, he gently lifted him ever so slightly, and slid his underwear down to his knees, exposing the detective’s slightly pink posterior to the air of the room. Running a hand over the small of Sherlock’s back, John addressed his flatmate in a dangerously authoritative tone.

“You’re getting exactly what you deserve. This apartment is not your testing ground. You will learn to behave yourself.”   
Sherlock shivered, but said nothing, horribly aware of how John’s voice alone seem to arouse him, the mere thought of John controlling how he behaves making his cock grow warm, trapped between his own body and the doctor’s denim clad thighs.   
The first smack came as a shock, and Sherlock found that it immediately brought back the soreness that had been slowly fading during the day. Squirming, he whimpered as John’s hand came down again, imagining the splayed finger marks of the doctor’s hand across his rosy flesh. Instinctively, he drew one hand back to protect himself, where yet again it was pinned to his back.   
“Oh dear, are you sore already, Sherlock?” John jibed, making Sherlock wriggle with embarrassment. 

*SMACK!* Sherlock whimpered louder, moaning as the sting resonated across his arse, mingling with the feeling of soreness that made him blush with embarrassment. 

“Ow!” he cried indignantly as the next strike landed, squirming around in John’s lap in order to try and evade the inevitable sting of the doctor’s strong palm. Suddenly, John’s warning voice came from above him. 

“This is what brats deserve, Sherlock”. Sherlock exhaled with a dry sob, his cock hard and hot underneath him as he tried to block John’s voice out, and begged his body to stay still. There was something terrifyingly sexy about how little the doctor’s tone made him feel. As John’s hand connected with his soft skin yet again, he bit his lip to muffle the moans of desire desperate to escape from him. 

There was a pause from above him where Sherlock thought perhaps it was all over. John was leaning slightly to his right, reaching for something that lay on the desk beside them. Then he felt the cold, hard wood of the ruler slide menacingly across his skin. 

“No.” Sherlock said flatly, the hand trapped in John’s grasp twisting to capture the doctor’s wrist. His pulse was fluttering rapidly beneath his skin, evidence that he was just as aroused as Sherlock was. Interesting. “Please, John, don’t.” 

The detective could practically hear John raise his eyebrow. “Why?” 

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes had he not been feeling so sensitive. “Because you’ve made your point, I won’t do it again I promise!” he whimpered pleadingly. 

“You’re not in much of a position to be bargaining with me, Sherlock” John observed. “We’re not done yet.” The detective couldn’t quite believe the childish rage that was flaring up inside him, but he felt himself sobbing before he’d even managed to process it. 

As the first strike landed, harsh and much less comforting and warm than John’s hand, hot tears welled up in the corner of Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Ow-John, please! Ahh! Stop, I’ll be good!”

The ruler left strips of red along Sherlock’s upturned arse, and the more worked up the detective became, the more uncomfortably John’s cock seemed to throb in his jeans. As the next strike landed, Sherlock burst into real tears, and the doctor was compelled to pause his onslaught. 

“Please, John” Sherlock sobbed shakily “I don’t want any more – it really hurts.”

Sherlock was sure the pulse in John’s wrist jumped at these words. But the doctor simply rubbed delicately at Sherlock’s skin and said “It’s supposed to hurt.”

The detective took a second to draw a shuddering breath before replying. 

“Please. I’ve learnt my lesson, I’m sore and sorry and I don’t want you to be cross with me anymore.” And even as he said the words, Sherlock found they were more truthful that he had intended them to be. John’s soothing palm against his hot and abused flesh was keeping him comfortably aroused; and he felt oddly content. Until John’s voice came from above him. 

“Five more.” John said plainly, not missing Sherlock’s growl of despondence as he felt the wood of the ruler settle against his flesh again. 

The first of the five was harder than any John had delivered before, and Sherlock was too shocked at the force to cry initially.

That was, until the searing pain caught up with him, and his free hand clutched at John’s ankle just for something else to hold onto. The second was as forceful as the first, and the detective squealed as the skin it struck seemed to raise and throb agonisingly, taking far longer to subside than the ones before. The third and fourth landed in quick succession at the very tops of Sherlock’s thighs, making him cry harder and almost buck off of John’s lap, despite knowing full well that writhing around wouldn’t affect the doctor’s aim in the slightest. The final strike stung an angry red stripe diagonally across Sherlock’s arse, and John immediately dropped the implement in his hand in favour of following the mark with him fingertips. Sherlock cried quietly as he lay across John’s lap, unwilling to get up until the doctor moved him. 

“It’s over,” John soothed gently, as he released Sherlock’s hand from his back. He wasn’t quite as uncomfortable with Sherlock sprawled across him as he had been earlier that day, and he found himself stroking the detective’s hair calmly, to try and coax the man out of crying. “Are you alright?”

“Mmm, no,” Sherlock sniffed, still not moving from where he was. “I feel funny.”

Given Sherlock usually pretentiously extensive vocabulary, this wasn’t quite the response John had been preparing for. “...You feel funny?” the doctor repeated, uncertain if he’d heard correctly. 

The detective nodded, his hand still curled around John’s ankle. He felt his underwear and then his trousers being carefully replaced by the doctor, and did absolutely nothing to aid him in this. He did feel funny, the way he had done when John had been using that belittling tone of voice. Only now the tone was gone, but Sherlock still felt the same. 

John frowned. “...Do you want to get up?”

For some reason, the shake of Sherlock’s head irritated him, and he smacked him sharply on his trouser-clad arse. “You know how to talk, Sherlock, so use words.”

The detective squirmed slightly, and John became instantly aware of how turned on they both still were. “No,” Sherlock said sulkily. “I don’t want to get up.” As if to emphasise this, Sherlock’s other hand snaked round the underside of John’s thigh, an action that made the doctor’s eyes snap open wide. 

Oh, he thought. I see. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: What's Sherlock playing at? ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Still stroking the back of the detective's head, John picked his words carefully before he opened his mouth.

"It can't be very comfortable like that. Come on, don't you have work to be doing?"

Sherlock mumbled something incoherently against John's thigh, and the doctor tutted impatiently. Lifting Sherlock at the waist, John moved the detective off of his lap with care, where he stood looking reproachful and generally embarrassed. His usual pale pallor had been replaced with a pink blush that spread across his tear-stained face. Despite this new position making the height difference between himself and his flatmate all the more obvious, Sherlock didn't look anything like is usual haughty self. Looking down, he watched as John zipped and buttoned his trousers, and began feeding his belt back through the loops at the waistband.

"What did you say?" John murmured distractedly, as the belt got caught a little around the side.

Sherlock simply observed this without helping at all, and replied:

"I said I don't, when you came in I was just pretending."

John sat back in his chair, having finally fastened the belt correctly, and regarded his flatmate cautiously. He was sniffing pathetically, hair falling over his eyes a little, and scuffing the toes of his shoes on the floorboard. His right hand was placed not-so-casually in his back pocket, while his left hung limply at his side. John couldn't imagine him looking any less like Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh" the doctor said nonchalantly, "well there must be something you need to do."

Sherlock stilled for a moment, as if weighing up his options. Then, he looked at John and said simply:

"I need a bath."

And then he just continued to stand there, looking at John like he was waiting for something. And the doctor tried not to blush as the image of Sherlock naked, skin wet and warm in the steam of the bath entered his mind. As the detective stood there, realisation dawned upon the doctor.

I don't know why, John thought in bewilderment, but I'm sure he wants me to do it for him. Completely ignoring how absolutely ridiculous it was that Sherlock seemed to not even be able to do his own trousers up without John's help, the doctor concentrated solely on what was happening, rather than why it was happening. It was much easier to process that way. Maybe it was some observation of psychological values, or an experiment in co-dependency.

Whatever it was, like always, John was going to have to go along with it, and ask questions later.

"You want me to run you a bath?" he asked slowly, watching for any sign that this was not what Sherlock had meant. But the detective just nodded shyly, confirming that whatever he was playing at, he was bloody good at acting the part. John was now forcefully ignoring how aroused he was at the sight of his flatmate acting this way and stood up.

"Come on then," he said with an inclination of his head "let's go."

Sherlock walked in front, much as he had done hours before, but at a far more leisurely pace. So leisurely in fact that John found himself prodding him playfully in the back to get him to move faster, an action that made Sherlock smile, but had no effect on his speed whatsoever. Reaching the bathroom, the detective sat down very gingerly on the lip of the bath, and watched as John knelt down and pushed the plug in, rolling up one of his sleeves and turning on the taps, running his fingers through the water to test the temperature. When he was satisfied, he leant back on his haunches and glanced at the detective, who was running his fingers idly over the tiles on the wall.

John was sure there was no physical medical explanation for what Sherlock was doing, and would have put it down to concussion had it not been for Sherlock's blatant consciousness of what he was doing. This was definitely some sort of game. The doctor wasn't sure if he was comfortable with how willing he had been to play.

Pushing thoughts of his own insanity aside, he took one of Sherlock's swinging feet in hand and began untying the shoelaces, and sliding it gently from the detective's foot. John felt a hand on his shoulder as Sherlock steadied himself on the edge of the bath, and set about methodically undressing the grown man. Sherlock only moved when John asked him to, standing up or moving his arms obediently as he watched John take off and tidily fold his expensive clothes into a neat pile on the floor. John had paused for a moment as he pushed his thumbs into the waistband of Sherlock's underwear, but it seemed they'd pretty much covered that base, so there was no point in being shy.

John quickly reached over to turn the taps off. Putting his professional "naked patient" mindset on, he took Sherlock's elbow and gently coaxed him into the bath. The detective's hissed as the warm water lapped against his sore skin, and the porcelain of the bath felt horribly uncomfortable beneath him. But the temperature was perfect – steam rising from the bath and misting up the mirror on the front of the medicine cabinet just above the sink. Relaxing into the heat, Sherlock tilted his head back, and felt John's wet fingers threading through his hair, massaging product through his locks and then gently rinsing it out. Sherlock wasn't sure if the doctor was aware that he was humming tunelessly through his teeth from concentration, but decided not to mention it. Instead, he let himself be taken care of by his vaguely-confused flatmate, sinking into the warmth and turning information slowly over in his head. He was perfectly aware of how odd the situation was, and also of how strange it was that he had chosen to engineer it. He was also aware of John's willingness to simply go along with it all, and the fact that the doctor was clearly attempting to detach himself from the situation, without much luck. Sherlock had not failed to notice how strangely tight the crotch of John's jeans had become, nor had he missed how the doctor's gaze seemed to drink in every inch of the detective's elegant frame.

"You didn't stop."

Sherlock's words pierced through John's bubble of concentration, and the doctor looked up sharply.

"What?"

Sherlock regarded him curiously, coyly swirling a finger around in the water that covered him, and replying in a conversational tone:

"I asked you, begged you to stop – and you didn't. Why?"

John felt a warm blush ascend along his throat, and a swirl of guilt in the pit of his stomach. But he kept Sherlock's gaze, looking at him steadily.

"Because if you really wanted me to stop, you could have gotten up. I definitely wasn't holding you down, and you might have squirmed around a bit, but you made no real attempt to get away from me –" John paused to watch a blush appear along Sherlock's cheekbones, as the tables were very much turned on him. "-Did you?"

The detective shook his head, not looking at John but rather looking past him, in the vain hope that perhaps if he pretended he couldn't see him, he would cease to exist.

Now John's curiosity was getting the better of him. Sherlock was obviously trying to portray himself as the victim of assault, in order to strike a chord with the doctor.

"You're a good judge of intent, Sherlock. What do you think I might have done if you hadn't asked me whether or not I was satisfied?"

The detective looked at him, calculatingly. He already knew the answer, he had done from the moment John had told him how sorry he was going to be. He knew it from John's character, from his body language, his tone; he'd pieced every detail together to predict what would happen should he refuse to let the doctor punish him.

"...You weren't going to do anything." He said flatly, shifting uncomfortably as the porcelain seemed to suddenly become a lot more painful sitting on the hard porcelain of the bath.

John shrugged. "I certainly wasn't going to bring it up by myself."

Sherlock stood up, looking down at his toes through the water.

"It hurts."

John's reply was the same as it had been before. "Good, it's supposed to." But Sherlock sensed that note of attraction in his voice; the smallest hint that it was a phrase he'd never get tired of saying. The detective's curiosity only grew each time he heard it.

Stepping out of the bath, Sherlock accepted the towel John gave him and tied it round his waist, and left the bathroom without a word. Once in his bedroom, he heard John's footsteps walking towards the kitchen, and then the sound of the kettle being clicked on.

Sherlock was surprised at John's level of control. He was clearly aroused by Sherlock and his behaviour, but had made absolutely no action to suggest that he enjoyed it.

The detective couldn't help but wonder how far he could push his flatmate, until he finally broke and admitted his desire. There was only one way to find out.


	5. Chapter 5

NOTE: Hello, folks. Hope you enjoy this lil' segway chapter, I currently procrastinating from my other fic. Love you! 

 

Sherlock waited a few days, and was as polite as he possibly could be without arousing suspicion, before carrying out his experiment. However, in the couple of days that he used as a rest period, mostly for his arse, he couldn’t help but do a little bit of observation.

That is to say, he ‘accidently’ left the bathroom door open wide enough for John to spot him looking at his sore arse in the mirror when he walked past, and noticed that the doctor managed to get a very good look in all the while he was pretending not to have noticed. In the kitchen, poring over slides under his microscope, Sherlock remained standing, and tentatively rubbed a hand over his backside just as John was pouring out the tea. From the muttered swearing and the sudden running of the cold tap, it would appear the doctor had managed to pour hot water over himself in his distraction. Small moments of course, each one calculated to look as if it was John that was observing him, rather than the other way around. And every time it solidified Sherlock’s belief that John wanted the detective over his knee again – that at least some part of him enjoyed it.

And yet three days later, when Sherlock had planned to rile John up into doing exactly that, the detective found himself holding back. The situation was deeply complex in terms of emotion; something Sherlock observed and analysed but didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about on a personal level. But what did he want? When John had first spanked him, he had been aroused enough to orgasm, and yet he’d felt genuinely guilty and sorry. The second time, he had fallen into a strange kind of emotional space in which he had experienced what was apparently known as ‘clinginess’....and in the same way, John’s emotions were obviously equally complex. He showed all the signs of enjoying having Sherlock over his knee, and yet it seemed he firmly believed spanking to be an effective punishment, which frankly Sherlock agreed with. How exactly could he orchestrate something which was pleasurable, and wouldn’t get him into trouble? The obvious answer was to tell John that’s what he wanted, and given the doctor’s willingness to accommodate most of Sherlock’s random and often slightly random activities, it would be unlikely the he would refuse. But then, thinking about that stern tone of voice John had used, Sherlock couldn’t help but think it was much more fun this way. As long as he trod carefully.

Resolving to alter his initial plan slightly, Sherlock took a more sensitive approach. He spray-painted the mirror in the bathroom, and drew a smiley face into it before it dried. Not exactly subtle, but he liked it. It had a certain character. Retreating to the living room, he lay down on the sofa with his back turned on the room, and delved into his mind-palace, feeling the itch of unsolved cases come to the fore, and searching in old corners for new information. So engrossed was he in fact, that he didn’t even hear John, let alone notice him.

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock!”

John’s patience ran out at this point and he marched from the bathroom into the living room, pausing for a second to glare at the detective’s back. He tried once more. No reply. Right. Stepping forward, the doctor raised his hand and planted a hard smack on the detective’s backside, firm enough to make his own hand tingle. Sherlock turned over immediately, and stared at him.

“John!”

“Get up.” John barked, watching with satisfaction as the detective immediately got to his feet, with an air of uneasy indignation. “Come with me.”

Sherlock obeyed, a mix of emotions swirling in his stomach, and when they reached the bathroom, he tried to look as bewildered as possible. John pointed at the yellow mirror, its smiling face had run and then dripped paint onto the sink below. Sherlock looked at it, and back at John.

“...It’s a mirror, John.”

The doctor’s shoulders squared, and he licked his lips in his attempt to stifle his irritation.

“It used to be. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it no longer serves that function, because you’ve sprayed it yellow.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened, and then closed again. He looked at John as if calculating something, and then his eyes became quite wide.

The doctor folded his arms, but couldn’t help but admire how quickly the emotions on Sherlock’s face changed from mood to mood. He saw the comeback, the roll of the eyes and the comment that belittled John’s intelligence. Then came what looked like he’d suddenly remembered what happened last time he painted something yellow. Then his mouth opened as if to say something in his own defence, before closing again. Then, came something John was not expecting.

“Sorry.”

The doctor stared at him for a second, as if Sherlock had just admitted he secretly kept a lion in his room, before clearing his throat and looking back at the smiley face drawn into the paint. Perhaps he was overreacting a bit. He had gotten over the eyes in the microwave for god’s sake, surely he was used to this by now. But he wasn’t. He was a military man, a man of tidy ways and sensibilities. And there was something goading about this. It wasn’t an experiment, it wasn’t for a case... it was just Sherlock doing something to consciously irritate him, wasn’t it? But as soon as the doctor had addressed it, Sherlock had apologised. So what did that mean?

“Why?” John said, shrugging. “Why are you sorry now if you thought it was a good idea to do it in the first place?”

Sherlock looked very uncomfortable. “...Because I’ve upset you.”

“But you knew it would get a reaction from me, surely?”

“...I was bored. I didn’t think about it in those terms.”

“That’s a lie though, isn’t it? You get bored and turn the entire living room upside down, you don’t mess up one thing and then leave everything else; it’s not dramatic enough. This is you testing the waters, and I don’t know why. So, you tell me – why?”

A very faint flush appeared along the detective’s cheekbones, and he looked down at the sink rather than at John. For a while, he looked as if he was just trying to form his explanation in his mind, but after a long pause, he simply folded his arms and shrugged.

The doctor was frustrated, but frankly, a lot of Sherlock’s behaviour remained a mystery to him. Why should this be any different?

“Does this come off?” he said, running his hand over the paint and inspecting his clean finger.

Sherlock looked back up at him for a second, before realising they were back to talking about the mirror. He managed to look even more uncomfortable, and shook his head.

John nodded. “You’ll replace it then.”

The detective nodded firmly, but his gazed remained thoroughly averted. Yet again he had that strange look of a small boy who had been caught drawing on the walls. A sudden thought came to the doctor’s mind.

“Did you damage things like this as a child?”

Sherlock looked at him, and frowned before finding his voice again. “Occasionally.”

“And what would happen?”

Sherlock stared at him as if the question was ridiculous. “They were replaced.”

“That’s all?”

A nod in reply.

“Right. Let me explain something to you. The fact that damaging things costs money to replace them is obviously not something that’s relevant to you. But that whole process takes time and an effort which is wasted on your inability to respect things you don’t care about, and I think that says a lot about you. You might be clever, but you’re certainly not an adult. You’re a very spoilt, very selfish little boy.”

Up until that final sentence, John was in control. He was detached, irritated, and not willing to deal with Sherlock in any way that wasn’t bluntly. But then those last words came out of his mouth, and he felt something change in the pit of his stomach. And there it was. He’d found the line. Up until that last sentence, he could have taken Sherlock over his knee and spanked him until he cried, and felt it was a job well-done without any complications. But then...

Sherlock KNEW it. It had gone off-track for a little bit, admittedly, and he had felt very stupid and guilty for nearly all of their exchange, especially as he seemed to have underestimated John’s intelligence quite substantially. But there it was, in that final sentence. That change of tone, almost definitely unintentional. And everything became as clear as day. John was capable of effectively punishing Sherlock, up until the point where his own anger gave way to the sudden reminder that he was clearly the only person capable of making Sherlock so flustered and sorry. No other normal person would dare to talk down to him like that. John had been turned on the first time because Sherlock’s disbelief made it obvious he’d never actually be spanked before, and the second time, his determination to teach the detective a lesson outweighed everything else until the punishment was over. These thoughts passed through Sherlock’s mind in an eighth of a second, and yet he still didn’t understand how he felt. John’s tone had really stirred his arousal, and yet it had hit far too close to home.

“No!”  He said it louder and faster than he had intended, not that he had intended to say that at all. It was so painfully defensive, and he could immediately feel the flush in his face deepening. He felt more spoilt and selfish than he ever had before.

John raised an eyebrow. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

Sherlock couldn’t regulate his reactions; things were getting a bit too real too quickly. John took a step towards him and he felt his own foot shift backwards slightly.

“I’m not!”

Christ, he really was shouting now, but John could see the outline of Sherlock’s cock pressing very faintly against his trousers, and he knew he was in a similar situation, if not more so. It was just so delicious how Sherlock went from cool and calculating to very flustered and very naughty when John spoke to him in a certain way.

“You are, and from the way you’re behaving, I think you know it too.”

Sherlock’s foot stamped against the floor, and this time he was unable to form words. Instead, an indignant moan escaped his lips, laced with desperation and petulance, and he leant his arm against the doorframe, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

“You stamp your foot at me again, and I’ll go and get that nasty ruler. You don’t want that, do you?”

How was John so GOOD at this?! Sherlock cock was straining and desperate for friction, and the quieter moan that he replied with this time had such a pleading tone that it made even plainer his obvious enjoyment of being put in his place. He shook his head meekly.

“Good. I don’t want that either.”

Sherlock uncovered his face a little, and watched as John approached him. The doctor stroked a hand through the detective’s hair, and there was a sudden consciousness of the heat between them.

When John spoke again, his lips were just inches from Sherlock’s own.

“You used the mirror to get me to punish you, but you said sorry because you thought it would convince me to just spank you instead. You will never try to manipulate me again, and if you ruin any more stuff on purpose I will find the slowest delivery service in London, make you order the replacement from them, and use that ruler on you every day until it arrives.”  

Sherlock whimpered and squirmed against John in discomfort, and the doctor pulled him closer and shushed him softly.

“Listen, I haven’t finished. This time, I’m sort of glad you indirectly addressed the situation, because it’s obviously cleared some things up. I know what you want from me, and what you need from me. And I’m going to give it to you.”

“Now?” Sherlock interjected brightly, his impatience as obvious as his erection.

John rolled his eyes. “You little brat...alright, yes. To your room. Now.”

 

NOTE: I forgot how fun this fic is to write. Any loose ends about their relationship obviously will have to be clarified in the next chapter etc etc, hope you enjoyed and please review, lovelies! 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

NOTE: ANOTHER UPDATE?! Imagine that. I'm just as shocked as you are. Happy reading!

 

John took Sherlock by the elbow and steered him towards the room, applying enough pressure to the detective’s pace a little hurried. Upon opening the door, he let go and marched straight over to the bed, sitting down on one side, and watch as Sherlock stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, his face flushed and one foot hooked around the other ankle.

“Close the door.” The doctor said firmly, not bothering to try and keep the arousal out of his tone. His was voice deep with lust, and Sherlock obeyed him immediately, before resuming his ‘shy’ stance several feet away from the bed.

“Come and stand in front of me.”

The detective’s heart was thumping, and he knew John had noticed his shallow breathing. His cock was achingly hard, and as he walked over to where the doctor sat, he bit his lip in anticipation, perfectly aware of what it would do to John.

Unlike last time, the doctor didn’t give him the option of taking his own trousers down, and immediately began unbuckling his belt for him.

“Brats like you, need to be taught a good, long lesson. Don’t they?”

“Mm...yes, John.”

The doctor unzipped Sherlock’s fly, and put his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers.

“And no matter how big and clever everyone else thinks you are, I will always treat you like a naughty boy when you need it, or deserve it. Is that clear?”

Sherlock whimpered softly as John pulled his trousers down to his shin, and immediately blushed harder as his hard cock bulged beneath the fabric of his underwear.

“Yes, John.”

And with that, the doctor promptly pulled the detective over his lap, shifting for a moment until Sherlock’s weight was properly accommodated. He felt the detective lift his hips slightly, and couldn’t help but grin to himself as he diligently pulled Sherlock’s underwear down to join his trousers. If he needed any more confirmation that the detective was more than up for this, that was certainly it.

“Pick a safeword, Sherlock. I need to make sure you get exactly what you need.”  

“Sussex.” The detective replied immediately, and slightly impatiently. No sooner had the word left his mouth, that he felt John’s hand land solidly on his left cheek, and from there a rain of smacks worked their way across his arse in a truly methodical fashion. With every stinging smack, Sherlock’s hips thrust gently into John’s leg, and he whimpered and writhed again the doctor, the burn rising up and becoming unbearably delicious.

“You dirty little boy, you don’t even have the decency to keep your hard cock to yourself, do you?”

Sherlock moaned as a particularly heavy spank landed right on the underside of his arse, and twisted his hips into John’s thigh.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry..ow!”

“Oh you’re going to be,” John said through gritted teeth, spanking Sherlock another ten times in quick succession, before running his hands over the detective’s upturned arse. “Lift up your hips for me naughty boy, you like having my hand wrapped around your cock, don’t you? Does that feel good?”

“Ohhh, yes, sir, that feels good.” More than good, it felt bloody amazing, and Sherlock could only mouth incoherently for a second, as John’s hands traced along the length of his leaking cock, and roughly fisted him for a few seconds.

John’s eyes closed as he heard the word “sir” escape Sherlock’s mouth without prompt, but decided not to press it. Instead, he removed his hand from around the detective’s cock and revelled in that whimper of despondence that rose up from man over his lap. Rubbing his hand soothingly over Sherlock’s skin, he gave the detective a sudden, sharp smack.

The detective jumped and whined “Oww...”

“Oh poor thing, does it sting? You’re looking so pretty and pink back here already, but I think you’ll look even better with a nice shade of red...”

And John was back to spanking Sherlock continuously. The detective’s shirt had ridden up from his squirming about, and the doctor placed his free hand firmly on Sherlock’s exposed back, feeling all the muscles tense and relax spasmodically as pain translated into pleasure. He was spanking hard enough to see hand prints bloom across the blushing skin of Sherlock’s arse, and every time the detective made so much as a whimper, he could feel his cock throb with need.

“Ouchhhh... oh please...sir, it really hurts.”

“Brats deserve sore seats, Sherlock. You’re going to be squirming around whenever you sit down for a while, and I know for a fact it’s going to get you hot and bothered every. Single. Time.”

The last few words were punctuated with sharp and stinging spanks across Sherlock’s burning arse, and the detective’s shoulders began to shudder with dry sobs of embarrassment and desperation. He bucked over John’s lap, and threw the hand not clutching the doctor’s shirt behind him to protect his backside. Surprisingly, he didn’t immediately feel a hand around his wrist. John’s hand came down once more, and then stopped. Sherlock’s hand hovered in the air just above his arse for a moment, a little unsure of why he wasn’t being chastised.

“Go on then,” he heard John say from above him. “Feel how hot you are.”

Tentatively, the detective’s hand lowered, and rested on his left cheek. The heat seemed to radiate off of his skin, so much so that even his gentle touch felt strangely sensitive. Slowly, his hand moved gently over his arse, and he hissed through his teeth as his fingers ghosted over the sorer parts. He could feel John’s eyes on him, and it made him shake a little. His hips were still shifting, but very gently now; pressing himself into the doctor’s lap and whimpering pathetically.

“Alright, hand back in front now. We still have a little bit to go.”

Sherlock’s whimpers went up a notch, an air of resentment in his tone.

“You can carry on if you like,” John said generously, “but if that’s the case, I see no need for me to rub you better when we’re actually finished...”

The nature of Sherlock’s noises changed dramatically at this point, and his hand immediately removed itself from his arse. As if just to reiterate his desire to be comforted, he wound his hand around the underside of John’s thigh, like he had done before, and nuzzled his face gently into the side of the doctor’s jeans.

At the sight of this, John very nearly came, and decided therefore to get Sherlock over the edge as quickly as possible. His hand came down again in an onslaught of spank after stinging spank across the detective’s sore backside, and brought back his chastisement with full force.

“You are so stroppy, even in the middle of a spanking! One minute you’re bordering on a tantrum because you can’t have what you want, and the next minute you’re trying to get round me. It just goes to show how much of an incurable little brat you are...”

Sherlock writhed, tension rising and bursting in his stomach as embarrassment shot through him with heat almost as hot as his arse. The sting was relentless now, John was lighting into him ceaselessly with both his hand and his mouth, and the detective felt half-delirious with it.

“...And look at you now. Over my knee, having your sorry arse spanked bright red. Thrusting your naughty cock into my leg because that’s all it takes to make you come, isn’t it? Tell me you deserve to be spanked, Sherlock.”

The detective cringed, his eyes squeezed shut. He could feel himself getting very close, very quickly, and his squirming and thrusting became more haphazard. He could barely feel each individual spank now; it was all just a blinding mass of overwrought nerves.

“I-I deserve to be...oh, please...ideservetobespanked! Oh god, I can’t-“

“Why do you deserve it, Sherlock?”

“Because I’m a spoilt brat!” The detective sobbed, his breath catching in his throat as his body was wracked by the convulsions of orgasm. His aching cock pulsed come into John’s lap, and his slender frame shaking. A quiet groan finally escaped him as his body shuddered from adrenaline. The release was euphoric, and a white wash descended over his eyes. He could vaguely feel John shifting underneath him, but every movement and sound seemed vaguely distant.

His breathing hitched and the world slowly came back to him. He found his arms wrapped around John’s leg, while the rest of his body lay limp over the doctor’s lap. John’s breathing seemed just as heavy as his own. Oh, he thought suddenly, his brain finally engaging. That must have been what the noise and shifting was. The doctor’s hand was slowly stroking in circles over his lower back, and Sherlock made nuzzled his face back into the doctor’s leg with a small sigh. Then, the stroking stopped, and John’s hands were suddenly at Sherlock’s feet, pulling off his shoes and socks, and freeing his trousers and underwear from around his ankles.

“Are you okay to get up?”

It took Sherlock a moment to respond, but he nodded, and with the help of the doctor managed to slide quite gracefully onto the floor. John immediately began unbuttoning the detective’s shirt, pulling it carefully from his shoulders and helping it down and off Sherlock arms before helping him off the floor and between the covers on the bed. Satisfied he was settled, John went about undressing himself, unwilling to stay in clothes that had been so thoroughly debauched.

Sliding in next to Sherlock, he sat up a little and pulled the other man towards him. Winding one arm around the detective’s back, he positioned Sherlock so that his head rested on the doctor’s shoulder, and his chest lay against John’s. Sherlock’s legs curled up slightly, and John stroked very gently over the tender flesh of the detective’s arse.

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock pressed himself closer to John, and made a little noise of contentment before replying:

“I’m definitely more than alright....thank you.”

The doctor smiled and rubbed the detective’s backside in small, soothing circles.

“I can’t quite believe this has happened.”

The detective made a little noise of agreement, but offered nothing else. John’s other hand was now in his hair and it was making his eyes close. The doctor’s body was warm and comfortable, and Sherlock felt a lot like a cat sitting in the sun.

“..Just to clarify, this is a thing now then?”

It took a great deal of self-restraint on Sherlock’s part not to shout at John to shut up, and it was only because he was so comfortable and didn’t want to risk it stopping, that his reply was so comprehensive.

“Just to clarify, sometimes I need you to spank me and treat me like a child. From now on I have to ask for it, instead of trying to orchestrate a situation without your consent. Obviously, that means you can ask me too if you want, and we both have the choice to agree or defer. I have a safeword. Anything that happens whilst we’re playing is reserved to that situation. Neither of us is required to remain emotionally faithful, as it were, to the other, it’s simply an arrangement of needs. I accept that if I damage property in the flat, you reserve the right to discipline me. So if that’s what you meant by thing, yes. It’s a thing now.”

John nodded slowly, and thought deeply. Then –

“...How long am I allowed to fuss over you for, afterwards?”

Sherlock’s eyes closed completely.

“Take as long as you like, John. By all means...” 

 

NOTE: Apologies if there were any errors, I wrote this deliriously in the small hours of the morning. Hope you enjoyed it! 


	7. Chapter 7

WHAT, YOU THOUGHT I'D FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU? Not on your life. 

 

John was used to waking up suddenly. It was usually because of a dream that he sometimes could and sometimes couldn’t remember upon waking, but often because of nothing at all. He’d find himself suddenly staring at the ceiling above and stay very still for a moment, listening intently for noises until he convinced himself all was well. Then, rolling over and closing his eyes again, he’d soothe himself back into sleep. So at around 5 o’clock on a Sunday morning, when his eyes snapped open suddenly, he wasn’t at all surprised to see the ceiling above him, dappled in dawn light. However, what did surprise him was the rather large shape that appeared to be hovering over him. After a second of complete silence, in which John prepared himself to take down a murderer/burglar/ monster, the shape spoke:

“John?”

The doctor let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. Concern flooded his features as he regarded the Sherlock-shaped form standing by his bed, and he quickly flicked on the bedside lamp.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

The detective’s pale skin glowed in the light of the lamp, and John couldn’t help but think his cheekbones were slightly pinker than usual. He looked uncomfortable, and was scuffing his toes along the floorboards, coyly twisting his hips from side to side as he did so.

“Nothing’s wrong; everything’s fine.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “So you came up here and woke me up at...” he check the bedside alarm, “Five in the morning...because everything is fine?”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise and looked down at his foot. “No, I woke you because I need...”

The detective motioned about in the air for a moment, as if the words might magically appear, and John stared at him, the look on his face having moved from concern to sleepy exasperation.

“You need what?”

“John.....” Sherlock whined irritably, his foot-scuff turning into a very gentle kick at the floor, and suddenly the doctor grasped what was going on. His sleep-addled brain had overlooked his and Sherlock’s new ‘arrangement’ – probably because nothing had happened since it started. It had been about a week since John had taken Sherlock over his knee, and since then everything had been relatively normal. The detective wasn’t any tidier around the flat, but nothing had been broken, and every so often John would catch himself staring at Sherlock’s arse and have to make a big show of looking like he was deep in concentration. In fact, the doctor was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t in fact dreamt it all up... But now Sherlock was here, in his room, looking very awkward and appeared to be trying to observe their new rules about asking – trying here being the operative word.

Well, John wasn’t exactly thrilled about being woken up so hideously early on a Sunday morning just because it suited Sherlock, and he remembered that the detective had said he could defer it...but now, looking at the detective acting all flustered, that general irritation was beginning to turn into the motivation he needed to do a good job of it. Possibly a bad habit to get into, (he didn’t want this to become Sherlock feeling that John would drop anything just to fulfil his needs), but the more he thought about it, the more he wanted Sherlock back over his knee.

He’d make him ask for it, though. No hinting allowed. 

“Sherlock,” the doctor said firmly, watching as Sherlock’s foot stilled immediately. “If you need something from me, you have to ask for it. Don’t you?”

The detective nodded slowly, licking his lower lip with an open mouth.

“I didn’t hear you.” John said pointedly, moving to sit on the side of the bed, his hands braced against his lower thighs.

“Yes, John” Sherlock said quietly, his hands clenching in nervous fists at his sides. “Please...May I, W-will you spank me...please?”

“Well, as you asked so nicely... come and stand here”

Just as Sherlock began to move, John also moved, walking over to his desk to pull the chair from under it, taking it over to face a corner of the room. He then walked over to  the light switch and flicked it on, blinking for a second as his eyes adjusted, and walked back to the bed, switching the bedside lamp off as he did so. All through this, he felt Sherlock’s eyes following him, and when he sat back down, the detective looked perfectly anxious, clenching and unclenching the fabric of his pyjama bottoms in his fist and worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

Just as John placed his thumbs under the waistband of said pyjama bottoms, Sherlock said in an uncommonly small voice: “What’s that for?”

John followed his gaze towards the chair facing the corner. “What are chairs usually for?”

A dark look much more suited to Sherlock’s normal demeanour swept across his face and his jaw clenched, but the expression quickly vanished as he felt his pyjama bottoms being tugged down to his ankles.

“To sit on.”

“Step out,” the doctor said briskly, waiting for the detective to obey and folding the garment neatly onto the bed before looking back at Sherlock. “Well I suppose that chair must be to sit on too, then.”

And with that, John took Sherlock’s upper arm and led him carefully over his knees, taking a moment to adjust himself. He’d seen the scowl on the detective’s face at the reply he’d given, but firmly chose to ignore it. That, along with not allowing Sherlock to undress himself, was certainly effective in setting the tone for the event.

“What’s your safeword, Sherlock?”

“Sussex.”

John smiled to himself at Sherlock’s quick response – “Good boy” he said, rubbing carefully over the pale flesh laid out before him: “I’m going to have a very well-behaved little boy over my lap, aren’t I?”

The detective squirmed, feeling his cock filling out against John’s leg. “...Yes, John.”

John raised his hand and spanked sharply in the centre of Sherlock’s left cheek, pausing for a split second to let the sting sink in before placing an identical one on the other side. Repeating the pattern, he spoke firmly, but only just loud enough to be heard alongside the smack of him palm on Sherlock’s skin.

“Brats like you need a good spanking...but I will _not_ accept any naughty behaviour from you whilst you’re over my knee...You _will_ keep your hands in front of you...You will _answer me_ when I ask you a question...And you will be _grateful_ that I’ve taken the time to treat you the way you need to be treated...Is that understood?”

By this point, Sherlock’s arse had already turned a rather vivid shade of pink all over, and the detective was squirming quite animatedly on John’s lap, alternating between shifting his hips to try and shake off the sting, and involuntarily thrusting his cock into John’s leg. The doctor’s little lecture had been administered with the same unrelenting sharpness as his spanking method, and Sherlock was now bright red with embarrassment, and moaning constantly under his breath.

“Yes, John! I-I’ll behave, I promise...”

Another pair of stinging smacks forced a whine from Sherlock, and he twisted his hips sharply as John’s palm connected with his sensitive flesh.

“I hope so...”

The detective gasped as John’s scalding hand layered yet more strikes on top of the last ones; right on his sit spots, and just low enough to catch the tops of his thighs. The heated soreness that was slowly building as soon as the fierce sting subsided slightly was becoming deeply uncomfortable – in a way that Sherlock knew no amount of rubbing would really fix.

“Ow, ow! I will – I’ll be so good for you...”

John brought his hand down to rest ominously in the centre of Sherlock’s backside, and couldn’t suppress a grin as the detective immediately pushed into the touch. He knew the spanking must sting unbearably, so it was all the more impressive how eager the detective was for more.

“Tell me then: what do I expect of you?”

Sherlock’s mind raced over the lecture he’d received, trying to ignore the throbbing of his cock and the squirming of his lower half under John’s hot palm. But he’d obviously left it too late for John’s liking, and the palm resting on his arse lifted and came down in four sharp and biting smacks, and Sherlock’s reply suddenly got a bit quicker:

“Answer you! I have to answer when you ask a question!”

The doctor’s palm rubbed gently over the spots he’d struck, and Sherlock arched up into the touch eagerly, making small pleading noises as John’s touch moved in between his cheeks, slipping down just far enough to stroke a finger across the base of the detective’s cock before moving back up again. Sherlock automatically spread his legs wider, and lifted his hips just a little, shifting more consciously now so that he was pressed firmly against John’s pyjama-clad thigh. 

It was a close call, but by some powers of sheer determination, John just about managed to remember what he had been talking about moments earlier. Sherlock was pretty mesmerising to watch; a gorgeous mixture of arousal and humiliation, his whole body squirming ceaselessly to try and contain all the conflicts that were going on inside of him. And yet he maintained this constant awareness that John was enjoying the whole thing just as must as he was; suddenly reminding John of this every so often with smaller, more elegant movements that were more about showing  off his lean body than reacting to the sting of the doctor’s palm.

“What else?” he asked quietly, making sure to keep his tone firm, but allowing himself to rub gently along Sherlock’s backside just to hear the detective make those lovely almost-purring sounds. He felt one of Sherlock’s hands come up to curl around his ankle. But, when no answer appeared forthcoming, he was forced to stopped his comforting and raised his palm.

“Umm...” Sherlock said with some urgency, as if he thought that noise alone might be considered to be just as valid as an actual answer. He was quickly informed by the force of John’s hand cracking against his sore skin that it apparently was not.

John spanked sharply along Sherlock’s sit spots at a rapid pace, allowing the sting to build up unbearably as he wasted no time in letting the sting sink in. Predictably, the detective’s squirming took on quite a different nature, and he desperately writhed over John’s lap in a series of bucks and thrusts that reflected his predicament perfectly.

“Wait-ow! No, I know what you said-John, please-oh..oh my god....”

When he realised that the doctor showed no signs of slowing down, he became even more frantic, moaning loudly as John’s hand brought up a burning soreness that made his whole body grow hot. The friction against his cock was painfully delicious, and he could feel himself getting close to orgasm, the warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach. His pyjama top was now hitched right up under his armpits, and the hand that had been braced against the floor had come up to clutch the underside of John’s leg,  his whole weight now rested in the doctor’s lap. One leg was stretched uselessly taut, his toes just about grazing the floorboards, whilst the other automatically bent at the knee and seemed to be trying to make its way over John’s right leg. The cumulative effect had Sherlock in a rather precarious position, and wriggling relentlessly, and yet John still managed to hit his target perfectly every time. Eyes shut tightly, Sherlock’s moans had turned guttural, and he was just about as on edge as he thought it was possible to be. He just needed John to say something now – anything - and it would be over.

“Please, John,” he said breathlessly, each syllable tight with gritty desperation. “Please-“

But just as quickly as it had begun, the onslaught stopped. The only sound Sherlock could hear was the drumming of his blood in his ears and the panting of his own breath, coming out in short bursts into the silent room. He knew he must have made some noise of frustration that his stimulant had been stopped so suddenly, but it had disappeared into the quiet of the room. The suddenness of it was enough to shock him into stillness, and he suddenly became all too aware of how vulnerable his position was.

When John finally spoke his voice was dangerously low: “It is very, _very_ poor behaviour, to keep me waiting when I’ve asked you a question.”

Sherlock – wisely – stayed completely silent, forcing his own breathing to be quieter. John’s tone was thick with lust, yet so stern it made the detective’s insides curl.

“It’s worse behaviour to do so, in favour of grinding your cock into my leg.”

Sherlock visibly tensed all over; a quiet moan escaped him, and he quickly bit into his arm to stop more from spilling out. He knew his whole face must be as red as his arse with embarrassment, and all he wanted to do was writhe and kick on John’s lap, just muffle his humiliation at getting off on such a thing as his own dressing-down. This is the kind of thing that he’d wanted – just to push him over the edge – but alongside the spanking, not instead of it. It was maddening that his body needed him to be at the point of exploding before his release came. And something told him that the doctor knew that fact very well indeed.  

Sherlock felt John’s hand on his arm, gently tugging it away from the detective’s mouth. When he spoke, his tone was nothing like it had been moments ago. It was soft and quiet, and Sherlock felt a shiver of a very different kind of pleasure run down his spine:

“Don’t do that. If I want you to be quiet, I’ll tell you. Alright?”

Sherlock managed to whisper something that sounded like a yes, and was rewarded momentarily with John’s fingers carding through his hair, before the doctor moved his hand to the back of his neck, and pressed firmly.

 “You failed to answer me because you were preoccupied with keeping your cock hard. Weren’t you?”

The detective cringed, his whole body suddenly growing violently hotter again as John returned to his previous rhetoric. With a dry, and slightly cracking throat, he trotted out another awkward yes, his head lolling between his shoulder blades.

“So now, in exchange for wasting my time, I’m going to waste some of yours. Up you get, please.”

With that, John released his grip on Sherlock’s hand and watched as the detective managed to slide gracefully down onto the floor. He was in such a state that John felt his own cock twitch, hard and ignored in his trousers. His flatmate had a deep flush over his cheekbones and chest, his eyes wide and anxious and yet his cock was thick and full, and John could tell he was having a difficult time keeping his hands off it. Standing up, John took Sherlock by the forearm and helped him up, pausing for a moment to make sure he could stand properly and then pulling his pyjama top back down over his front. Then he pointed a stern finger towards the corner where the chair was placed and gave Sherlock a very pointed look.

“You obviously need some time to think about how to behave. So go and sit over there, and wait until I tell you to come out.”

Sherlock’s hands immediately shot behind him to cover his reddened arse, and he stared at the chair like it was an exploding bomb, looking back at John with a face full of pleading.

“No, please. Please, I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to...”

“Oh, I think you knew exactly what you were doing.” The doctor said, eyebrow raised.

If Sherlock’s blush could have deepened any more, it would have done at this point. Okay, so maybe it had been a bit of an obvious move to try and get John to spank him just that little bit harder -  after all, the detective was very aware of how much John appeared to dislike being kept waiting- but this was not the outcome he’d had in mind.

John could see petulance brewing on Sherlock’s face, the ‘it’s not fair’ rang out more clearly in the silence than the words aloud ever could. Was it strange how arousing he found it to know he would be the one to change it back into that wide-eyed, pleading gaze again? Probably.

“Sherlock Holmes, sit yourself in that corner right now, before I demonstrate what a slipper feels like on a very sore backside.”

This threat had the desired effect – the detective’s temper immediately gave way to a look of pure horror, before he quickly walked himself to the corner. It was quite endearing how much he tried not to make a fuss of sitting down, but it backfired when he stood up as soon as his full weight rested on his arse, and emitted what could only be described as a squeal of discomfort. However, he didn’t wait to be told to sit back down, merely lowered himself a little more gently back onto the harsh wooden seat. For a moment, he instinctively placed his hands in his lap, and then quickly removed them, awkwardly gripping the arms of the chair instead.

“Hands behind your head, and no talking” John ordered, forcing himself to keep all amusement out of his tone. He felt a little guilty, but the whole display had been so adorable, and the detective was already squirming surreptitiously, making whispered moans of discomfort that kept the doctor’s cock pressed against the fabric of his pyjama bottoms. For a moment, he thought about demanding complete silence from the detective, but really, the tiny noises benefitted him far more than Sherlock, so what was the harm? The same went for the squirming – Sherlock knew not to move until he was told to, but that didn’t mean John couldn’t enjoy watching him shift from buttock to buttock as he attempted to make a deeply uncomfortable situation more comfortable.

The doctor quickly decided that ten minutes would be more than enough time for Sherlock to feel suitably punished, without making him feel like he was being tortured, or removing the element of desire completely. And also, John wasn’t sure how much of watching the detective squirm around like a well-spanked six year old he could take before he gave in. So, ten minutes it was.

 

NOTE: Thanks for reading. Never, ever give up hope, and stay tuned!


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